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Pawprints In The Snow/Chapter Three
Chapter Three (Zaffie) Ravenpaw blinked as a flake of snow drifted down and landed on his nose. He sneezed, the sound muffled by the thick earthen walls of the tunnel he crouched in. When the blizzard had started, Ravenpaw had been a fair way from camp, and it hadn't been worth it to try and stagger back there in the freezing cold, through the blinding winds. The worst part was that there was almost no way the kits could still be alive in this freezing weather. Six of them, only five moons old, had been sent out hunting - just like every warrior, apprentice and elder in ShadowClan. They were starving, and every part of the territory was frozen solid, with no sign of prey. Contrary to popular belief, ShadowClan had never sunk so low as to eat crow-food, but this leaf-bare they were getting pretty close. Cloudfur had sent Ravenpaw out to search for her son, Ratkit. It had been hours since Crowstar had sent the kits off in a hunting patrol of their own, and Cloudfur was getting desperate. Normally, Ravenpaw wouldn't be out here looking for a kit, instead of for a mouse, but Ratkit was his half-brother. They shared the same father, and even though Ravenpaw normally resented Cloudfur for being his father's second mate, today he was granting her this favour. Maybe the kits wandered over the border, he thought, poking his muzzle beyond the confines of the old badger set he was crouching in. He could just barely see the dark shadows of trees that marked the border with ThunderClan through the swirling whiteness. Before this long cold started, kits stumbling into ThunderClan territory wouldn't have been a problem, but lately all the Clans had been on edge. Border fights had started over practically nothing, and there had even been a cat drowned during a scrap between RiverClan and WindClan. Thank StarClan the Gathering is tonight. The leaders were planning to talk sensibly, resolve the multiple arguments between the four Clans, and work out a system for every Clan to be fed during this prey-empty leaf-bare. Gradually, the howling of the wind slowed, and Ravenpaw figured this was as good as it was going to get. Slitting his green eyes against the blinding glare of the snow, he crept out of the set, spreading out his weight as he walked across the thick, powdery drifts. Swirling snowflakes caught in his long fur and settled on his ears. He shivered, the spasm running across his skin. The snow was deep, covering stunted bushes and piling around the roots of trees. Ravenpaw wasn't even sure which was the camp was, the white landscape looking almost completely unfamiliar. And then, abruptly, he saw the bird. It was as glossy black as himself, standing on a pile of snow, and Ravenpaw crouched as he crept towards it, dragging one paw forward at a time in a hunter's stalk. The tip of his tail twitched, the muscles in his haunches bunched, and he thrust forward, scrabbling for a grip on the slithery ground, his front paws reaching for the bird's tail feathers. It squawked and flapped, taking off just as his claws raked its wing, and Ravenpaw tumbled over, landing on his chest and crashing through the snow drift. There was a chasm beneath the powdered top, made of snow packed hard together. Eerie, icy blue walls surrounded Ravenpaw, and when he looked around he saw them. Tiny little bodies in a corner, huddled together to try and eke out the last vestiges of warmth. Ice crystals gleamed on the edges of their fur, clustered around their noses where breath no longer passed. Their eyes were glassy and staring. Swallowing the bile which rose in his throat, Ravenpaw counted. Four. That meant two more kits were still out in this weather somewhere. A spark of hope blossomed within him, and the dark-furred tom leaned close to pick out individual details of the kits' fur. One black-and-white, two brown, and a fluffy, broad-shouldered grey tabby. Ratkit's distinctive dark brown tabby stripes were nowhere in the pile, and neither was Pouncekit, a tiny tortoiseshell. Closing his eyes for a moment, Ravenpaw pictured the two tiny kits wading through snow, weighed down by the weight of their wet fur. Please, StarClan, he prayed. Let them be all right. ''He would scent as best as he could on the way home for his half-brother - but even if he found the remaining two kits alive, there would still be grief in the camp tonight when he delivered his news. He would mark this place, and maybe a patrol would be sent out later to recover the little bodies for their vigil - or maybe the Clan just wouldn't be able to spare the energy. ''What will become of us when we can't even honour our traditions?